


stirringofbirds between my arms

by juliusschmidt



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Crushes, Dry Humping, Flowers, Hair, M/M, Neighbors, Poetry, Resolved Sexual Tension, Secret Relationship, Sneaking Around, Unresolved Sexual Tension, creepering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:18:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliusschmidt/pseuds/juliusschmidt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen-year-old Harry develops a crush on his neighbor, Louis, who is twenty-three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stirringofbirds between my arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Title from the poem 'i have found what you are like' by e.e. cummings. ( [ x ](http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1586/i-have-found-what-you-are-like/)) This is also the poem I am imagining that Harry is practicing in the fic.
> 
> Softgrudges, I loved your prompts and had much grander plans for them, but I hope you like this little baby of a fic. :)

The late summer sun is hot and harsh and Harry _knows_ he’s not being nearly stealthy enough. He’d made enough noise going down the front porch steps to draw a “Careful, Harry dear,” from his mum and a squinty, one-eyed glare from Gemma, clearly perturbed that his clumsiness had interrupted her sleepy sunbathing.

The important thing is that the neighbor boy- or, erm, man really- doesn’t notice him. And, so far, Harry’s safe. The guy in question has his headphones on and appears to be very focused on pulling weeds. So Harry sits back on his haunches, careful not to disturb the hedges he’s wedged himself between too much, and watches. 

He’s _supposed_ to be making friends with Lottie, who’s presumably this guy’s younger sister. She’ll be in his year and Mrs. Bunting from three houses down- who’d brought Harry’s family ‘welcome cookies’ when they’d moved in three days ago- thought they’d get on ‘famously.’ She’d winked at him as she relayed that Lottie was a ‘beautiful girl- really, really beautiful.’

Harry thinks her brother is _a lot_ more beautiful. He’s got golden skin and muscles, stubble on his chin and hair on his chest. Harry kind of wants to run his fingers through it. Or rub his face in it. Or braid it.

Several drops of sweat trickle down the guy’s neck and disappear beneath his already soaked white tank top. Harry can see a swath of tattoos decorating one of the guy’s arms and more peeking out from the front of his shirt and Harry wonders what they are and what they mean. Harry wonders how old the guy is and whether he’ll be returning to university in a month or so when the term starts like Gemma. Harry wonders what his name is and whether he likes the same type of porn as Harry does- where the fucking is slow and rhythmic and the moans are deep and throaty and there is always, _always,_ at least two dicks involved.

He presses a hand to the front of his shorts and cups his now half-hard dick. The boner is annoying but also predictable. The guy has biceps the size of melons and Harry has snuck over to intentionally perv on him. Sort of.

Still, he does have to introduce himself to this Lottie chick eventually and he can’t very well do so with an erection tenting his shorts. He tries to control his breathing and watch Louis’ hands instead. His fingers are short and his nails are square. They’re covered in dirt, but Harry thinks they look strong and sure. He can’t help but picture them, even as grubby as they are, in place of his own, wrapped around his dick, grip tight, working him faster and faster.

Harry’s breathe catches and he squeezes himself. He’s fully hard now. He closes his eyes and swallows.

Maybe he should leave; go home and splash some water on his face before introducing himself to the new neighbors. Except that mum and Gemma had watched him walk across the street and they’d be curious and confused. Gemma might even _say something_ about his boner, fucking asshole older sister.

_The garden_ , he thinks a little desperately, _look at the garden._ Harry likes flowers, really he does. He’s helped his mum do up her beds since he was in diapers. The plot this guy is working on is small compared what they’d had at their old home- mostly low maintenance perennials- daisies and lavender and hollyhocks- that have run a little wild.

The guy is really going at it, tugging out stem after stem with an almost bitter vigor. Harry himself is a much more cautious gardener. Even the most invasive and dickish plants deserve a chance and Harry thinks the distinction between a flower and a weed is rather arbitrary. He treats each plant with respect.

So he’s all the more horrified to discover that the guy (with his deliciously meaty fists and surprisingly delicate wrists) is plucking out _viola_. Sure, they’re not blooming _now_. They don’t have the constitutions for August’s bright sun and deep heat.  But in a few weeks, when summer backs off a bit, they’ll be sporting lovely purple or orange faces and it _breaks_ Harry’s heart to see clump after clump dug up and thrown to the side.

“Hey,” Harry calls out, moving away from the shrubbery and towards the guy.

The guy doesn’t turn around and Harry can hear the tinny notes of _Journey_ ringing through his shitty headphone speakers. Harry _loves_ Journey. Kind of. More than his old friends did, anyway.

Feeling bold, like maybe he _does_ have something in common with this gorgeous guy, Harry reaches out and taps him on the shoulder. His fingers brush both skin and fabric, sticky and a little wet. He immediately begins to brainstorm excuses for prolonging the contact, but the guy jumps away from his touch and turns to look at him. He’s frowning as he pulls off his headphones. Then, after a few long seconds and a pointed look up and down Harry’s body, he smiles.

Harry’s stomach flips and blood rushes back down to his crotch, his erection returning with renewed vigor. Harry’s sweaty, too, he realizes, and very, very close to naked- clad only in his rattiest running shorts.

He takes a deep breath. “Sorry, but you were pulling _flowers_ , not weeds, and I thought I should say something.”

The guy taps his thigh with his fingers and watches Harry for a few seconds before replying, “You just moved in across the street, right?”

Harry nods, “I’m Harry.”

“Harry,” the guy repeats, eyes straying to Harry’s waist again. He can’t not see the outline of Harry’s dick and he can’t not know that Harry’s _hard_.

Harry closes his eyes. _Flowers,_ he thinks. “You’re pulling up _viola_.”

“I’ve no idea which flower is which. My mum’s got me out here because she’s pregnant as shit and can’t bend over easily.”

Harry moves to kneel beside him. He points the pile of not-actually-weeds beside Louis. “Those are viola and they bloom in the spring and fall. You should leave those in.”

The guy licks his lips and Harry hopes the little gasp he lets out isn’t _too_ obvious. “Oh, is that right?” He’s not even looking at the plants. His eyes are firmly trained Harry’s nipples.

Harry looks down to see if he’s got something unusual on his chest, but everything looks normal to him, although he’s still bare and turning quite pink.

“I could help,” Harry offers. “I know a lot about gardening.”

The guy smirks. “Alright, flower boy. Which of these needs to be pulled?”

Harry finds himself answering the guy’s question and then some. He tells him about each weed and why it’s not good for this or that garden and about each plant, when it blooms and his experience growing it in the past.

The guy teases him, but he also asks more questions, not just about plants, but also about Harry’s taste in music and his courses and what he hopes to be when he grows up. It’s intoxicating- being at the center of an undeniably sexy older man’s attention and Harry doesn’t want it to end.

Harry doesn’t want the guy to stop being (at least _seemingly)_ curious about him. He doesn’t want him to stop sending Harry _hungry_ looks. He doesn’t want their shoulders and elbows to stop brushing.

He’s a little nervous someone will catch them. It’s obvious the guy is both interested in Harry and _way too old_ for him. But he can’t bring himself to leave.

And when a girl shouts out from inside the house that the guy needs to get his arse inside for tea, Harry can’t bring himself to regret spending the afternoon with the brother as opposed to the sister.

In fact, the only thing he regrets is the he hasn’t learned anything more about those enticing (and probably very lickable) tattoos. Well, he guesses, it is what it is.

~

The guy’s name is Louis and he’s several years older than Gemma, but they have a common interest: hair-dressing. Or rather, Louis is interested in hair-dressing and Gemma’s interested in having her hair dressed.  

Which is presumably why Harry walks into the kitchen in search of a late night snack and finds Louis fussing with dye and tin foil and Gemma’s hair… for the third evening in a row.

It shouldn’t be a big deal, and it definitely shouldn’t make Harry feel hot inside and out with this weird mixture of anger and sadness and maybe also jealousy. Except that throughout the short course of his and Gemma’s friendship, Louis hasn’t said more than a causal ‘hello’ to Harry.

He didn’t say much that first day either, in the garden, so Harry might believe that he’s shy or quiet. The thing is, with Gemma, he’s a veritable motormouth. He literally _never_ shuts up. Harry has heard him joking and singing and giggling from up in his room.

Harry had thought that the guy had _liked_ him, maybe even _like_ liked him.  But it’s clear now that he thinks of Harry as a kid.

And to Harry’s utter dismay, he cannot help but act like exactly like that- _a kid_ \- when Louis’ around. As he munches his banana, as sexily as possible even though Louis can _not_ be bothered to look at him, he finds himself saying, “My hair probably needs to be cut soon.”

It’s so obvious and so desperate and so totally a lie that Gemma raises a disbelieving eyebrow. Thankfully, before she can comment, Louis says, “Those curls might be rough to manage, but they’re very impressive.”

Louis isn’t looking at Harry as he says it, but it’s clear from his statement that he _has_ looked at Harry. That he’s thought about whether his curls are impressive or not. Harry wonders if he thinks anything else about Harry is impressive. Like his dick. He hopes so.

Later, hours later, when the activity in the kitchen has quieted down, and Harry’s doing his final check of Facebook and Twitter before going to sleep, he hears his door creak open. Thinking it’s his mum, maybe with his bedtime tea and goodnight kiss, he doesn’t turn and instead says, “Almost finished.”

His bed creaks and he hears, “It’s okay. I can wait.”

Harry whirls around. And sure enough, Louis is sat, relaxed and smiling, in the middle of his bed. _In the middle of his bed_.

“Oh hey, Louis,” Harry says, hoping that his voice is less rough than it sounds to his ears. _Casual_ , he needs to act casual, like having a beautiful man in his room, _between his sheets_ , is a normal thing.

“I thought maybe I could do you, now,” Louis says.

Harry chokes and grips the arms of his chairs. Louis’ smiling at him- he’s not having any trouble with ‘casual,’ even though he’s just _propositioned_ Harry- and Harry wants to cry. It’s a wet dream come true. As in Harry has literally come in his sleep dreaming of a frighteningly similar scenario.

Harry pinches himself.

Frowning, probably at Harry’s hesitation- why the fuck is he hesitating, like, get it the fuck together _-_ Louis explains, “I haven’t had the chance to work with hair as curly as yours very often. It’ll be good practice.”

Harry blinks. His hair. Louis wants to do his hair. Okay, he thinks, _that_ he might be able to do casually. “Okay,” he tells Louis, his voice shaking very uncasually.

“How short do you want it? It’d be a pity to cut too much off.” Harry agrees, is the thing. He’d had it cut less than a month ago and he’s actually trying to grow it out a bit. But he really, really wants Louis’ hands in his hair.

Also, like, hair cutting seems like a kitchen activity. Harry does not want to take this interaction to the kitchen. He likes seeing Louis in his bed and he doesn’t like the idea of his mum or Gemma walking in on Louis with his fingers all over Harry. He’s already getting hard, and Louis hasn’t even touched him yet. This is going to be _very_ embarrassing. Though, to his defense, Louis is _in his bed._ Like, Louis is sitting right where Harry sleeps and watches porn and jerks off.

“It’s probably not a good idea to cut it, actually.  It might make a mess and it’s late and stuff.” Harry’s voice sounds almost steady now, which is great.

Louis sits up straighter and Harry thinks (hopes) he looks disappointed, so Harry rushes to say, “But maybe you could like do it up or something. It’s almost as long as a girls, you know?”

Louis taps his fingers against his thigh and licks his lips, appraising Harry. It’s a professional appraisal, Harry tells himself, not a sexual one. Probably.

“Okay, I could try braiding it, maybe.”

Harry chews his lip and nods. Louis shifts, like he’s about to get up and Harry does not want that so he says, “I’ll come over there.”

Harry settles on the bed and Louis moves to kneel behind him. Unbidden, an image from a porn video he watched recently floats into his mind. The actors were positioned almost exactly like this- the one in front riding the dick of the one behind, his hand wrapped around his own cock as he moaned loudly for the camera. Harry wonders if Louis’ ever had sex like that and whether he’d like to try with Harry.

Louis hands slide into Harry’s hair and Harry lets out a soft sigh. Or at least he thinks it’s soft until Louis says quietly and against Harry’s ear, “Fuck, I bet you’re loud.”

Now, that, _that_ was forward and it makes Harry a little giddy, especially because Louis sounds so pleased. So when Louis nails dig into his scalp, sending little shivers down Harry’s spine, Harry makes sure his next moan is downright porn-worthy.

Louis tugs a little bit at the noise and Harry swears he feels the pull as if Louis’ hand was on his dick. There’s a wet spot on the front of Harry’s shorts and Harry wants Louis to notice it. _Really,_ he wants Louis to _touch_ it.

Louis doesn’t touch it, though. He keeps his hands in Harry’s hair, pulling and rubbing and scratching, not even pretending to braid it. His breath is hot on Harry’s neck and Harry is almost certain that he’s enjoying the massage as much as Harry is.

They stay like that, connected and, at least on Harry’s part, desperately aroused, until he hears his mum making her way up the stairs.

Reluctantly, Harry pulls away. “You’ve got to sneak out,” he tells Louis. “Mum won’t like me having an… erm… friend over this late.”

Louis nods. His eyes are trained on Harry’s lips and Harry wonders if they’re going to kiss.

But Louis stands and stretches. Harry looks down and it’s a mistake because he can’t take his eyes away from Louis’ dick. It’s pushing out at the fabric of his sweats, as hard and as quite possibly as big as Harry’s own.

Harry’s breath is coming in short pants and he has no idea how he’s going to play it cool when his mother peeks in to say goodnight.

Louis reaches out and pulls at Harry’s curls one last time, saying, “Goodnight, sunshine,” before dashing out the door.

~

The first week of school Harry gets assigned a speech project. It’s a pretty simple task: memorize and perform a poem of your choice for the class. Except that Harry absolutely hates speaking in public. It makes him sick- literally _sick_ \- with anxiety. He tells Lottie as much as they make their way home from the bus stop.

She laughs and grips his elbow. She’s pretty flirtatious with him and it’s embarrassing because he wanks almost every night to thoughts of her brother. She says, “You should ask Louis to help you. He’s ace at stuff like that. Always wanted to be an actor, but never caught a break.”

And, see, there’s something Harry would like to have known about Louis. Harry wishes they talked, like friends. _Or boyfriends._ He thinks they’d do good together, even though Louis is _so much older_ than he is, and his dick more than agrees.

“I could send him over, if you’d like,” Lottie offers. Harry feels his eyes get wide and his breath catch in anticipation. There’s nothing _nothing_ he’d like more than for Louis to spend another few hours in his bedroom, just the two of them.

“Yeah, that’d be cool,” Harry tries and probably fails not to sound too enthusiastic. He doesn’t want her to get the wrong (or possibly right) idea, so he adds, “He’s just like a great person to sit and admire what he’s like.”

Lottie shoots him a strange look. “You’re weird.”

It’s not till two days later, after dinner but before the sun has set, that Louis knocks on Harry’s door. When he comes in Harry can’t help but ask, “Does my mum or sister know you’re here?”

He’s not sure why, but it seems very important that they don’t. He and Louis aren’t doing anything wrong, even if they both so obviously want to (as attested to by their matching boners), but Harry doesn’t think they’d like him spending so much time with a gay dude seven years his senior. It kind of looks bad.

Thankfully, Louis shakes his head. “House was unlocked, so I came right in.”

“Good, yeah. It’s not like they can’t know cause we’re just doing normal stuff, but, like, _you know_ ,” Harry explains. 

Louis waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah? Don’t want them to think we’re doing stuff that isn’t normal?” The way he curls his tongue the last word ‘normal’ sends a little shiver of excitement through Harry. He definitely wishes they were doing not normal stuff.

Louis licks his lips. He’s still standing in the doorway with his shoes and jacket on.

“Come in, sit down. Do you want a cup of tea or something?” Harry asks. He wants Louis to feel welcome. He wants him to want to come back and sit on Harry’s bed again and again and again.

“No, that’s okay. Maybe later. Why don’t you read me your poem?”

So Harry does. He’s chosen something short and sweet and playful by e.e. cummings and it isn’t until he watches Louis watch him read it that he realizes how _dirty_ it is.  After seeing Louis’ eyes grow dark and his fingers clench in the sheets, Harry’s not sure he can perform it for his class.

“Oh come on, it’s a great poem. You can’t start over now, anyway.” Louis’ tone is as bright as his smile and it makes Harry feel _awesome_ , like maybe he’s doing well, like maybe he’s made the right choice with this poem, like maybe Louis does _like_ him.

Louis has him read it again and again and he coaches Harry to say the word ‘hugeness’ without giggling. Throughout the evening Louis’ eyes never leave Harry and by the time they’re finished Harry feels almost intoxicated, buzzing from the attention.

Finally, Harry sets the paper down between and meets Louis’ eyes, “Am I good?”

Louis tilts his head. “Say it one more time for me. With your eyes closed. I bet you can do it from memory.”

Harry swallows. He hasn’t been trying to memorize it, but he’s said it so many times and he wants to please Louis _so_ badly. He wants him say that _he- Harry- is great_ , not just the poem.

So he closes his eyes and begins. The words come, smooth and easy. The inflection Louis’ had him add, the little pauses and crescendos, help.

When he’s finished, he blinks his eyes open and Louis’ face is _right there,_ not an inch away from his own. His lips are parted and Harry doesn’t think either of them are breathing.

Harry leans forward and kisses him. His lips are soft and a little wet. Harry presses closer and moves his lips. Louis stubble burns a bit and the surprise of it, so different from any of the girls he’s kissed, has Harry pulling back.

Louis’ eyes are open and wide and so so blue. Harry wants to swim in them.

“You okay?” Louis asks, his voice is soft and huskier than Harry’s ever heard.

It’s an odd question, Harry thinks, because his heart is racing and he’s popped a boner and the most attractive man he’s ever met is sitting beside him in his room and he’s just kissed him. Harry does not feel _okay_. His stomach is filled with butterflies, wild and eager and spirited butterflies, and he’s about to burst with happiness and anticipation, but he nods, mostly because he thinks that might be the most effective way to get Louis to kiss him again.

He’s right. Louis presses their lips together again, this time poking his tongue against the seam of Harry’s lips. Harry lets him in and meets his tongue with his own, more than a little curious about the appeal of ‘french kissing.’

He figures it out pretty quick, the ticklepress of Louis's beard against his chin making him harder than ever. He gasps when Louis’ slides his hands into Harry’s hair and _tugs_. It’s electrifying and he needs to be closer.

He climbs atop Louis lap and wraps his arms and legs around him. His enthusiasm knocks them both back onto the bed and, much to Harry’s dismay, their lips fall apart.

But then Louis’ hands are moving down his back and cupping his arse, pulling their hips tightly together so that Harry can feel Louis’ erection. Harry arches against him, reveling as much in Louis’ desire for him as in the friction the press of their bodies creates.

Louis hips thrust up to meet him and Harry realizes that he’s whispering, maybe to Harry, maybe to himself. “So good, yeah, come on, that’s it, yeah, _yeah_. _So good_.”

Harry’s heart soars and his dick pulses out a bubble of precome. It won’t be long- he can feel the orgasm building in his balls. But he wants to draw it out. He wants to be _so_ good. He wants to make Louis feel good, too, like he feels, warm and aching and desperate to come.

He moves his mouth against Louis’ throat and neck and chin in wet half-kisses and scrabbles to reach up and weave his hands into the silky strands of Louis’ hair.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. _Shhh,_ ” Louis murmurs and Harry realizes he’s whining, loud and so _so_ close. “Come on, come on.”

At Louis’ insistent tone, Harry lets himself go. He lets his grip slacken and bites down hard on Louis’ throat to keep quiet as he ruts furiously up against Louis’ hip. _Down and down and down_ until he’s coming, warm and sticky, in his shorts.

Louis smooths a hand down Harry’s back. “Fuck, you’re hot.”

Harry opens his eyes- he hadn’t meant to close them; he’d wanted to capture ever single detail of this fantasy come to life- and sees a pink mark blossoming where he’d bitten down on Louis’ neck.

He kisses it and murmurs, “Sorry.”

Louis swallows. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

Harry sits up meaning to move off him and change his shorts, but his eyes catch on the tent in Louis’ sweats. _He_ hasn’t come yet.

Harry moves his hand to cover Louis’ dick. “Can I, like, jerk you or something?”

Louis nods and shifts to pull his pants down. His dick springs free and Harry immediately catches it in his palm. It’s smooth and heavy and pink- uncut just like Harry. He wants to investigate it, run his fingers down each vein, examine every angle of it, maybe even kiss it, but Louis’ impatient grunt stops him.

He hopes he’ll have another chance. It seems unlikely, and yet, doing anything with Louis had seemed unlikely a month and a half ago so.

He pulls and twists and flicks his thumb over Louis’, trying to use as much finesse as possible, wanting so much to impress him. He chews his lip, trying to figure out how to make this the best hand job Louis’ ever had. He reaches his free hand down to roll Louis’ balls in his palm at the same time as he picks up the pace of his fist. Within seconds Louis is gasping out a, ‘oh fuck’ and shooting off, spurts of white covering them both.

Panting, Louis says, “So _fucking_ good.”

Harry reaches for the tissues by his bed and wipes them both as dry as he can. It’s not perfect and he prays Louis doesn’t run into anyone on his way out. What they’ve been doing will be _so_ obvious.

Harry runs a hand through his hair and grins at Louis. He’s so happy. “I’m so happy,” he says.

That seems to startle Louis out of his sex daze. He sits up and frowns. “You’re so young, the same age as Lottie, oh my god.”

Harry’s chest tightens. He should have expected this. There’s no way his baby fat and inexperience are competition for the loads of guys that probably all want Louis arse. And dick.

“I’m six months older than she is,” Harry reminds him, but it comes out whiny and probably makes him sound more childish than ever.  

Louis sighs and drums his fingers against the sheets. “Yeah, but you should be with guys your own age.”

“There are no guys my age.” Harry _knows_ he’s whining now.

Louis levels him with a hard look.

“That are _out,_ I mean,” Harry clarifies. “And none of them are as great as you.” He plucks at the sheet and then looks over at Louis through his lashes. He hopes it’s flirtatious.

“I’m not great, Harry. I dropped out of University to do people’s hair.” Louis’ the one who sounds whiny, now. And he’s wrong, anyway. He’s _so_ great.

“You’re so great,” Harry tells him. “You help your mom and your sisters. You helped me with my English project. I bet you have a lot more to teach me.” He uses the ‘innuendo inflection’ Louis’ had been coaching on him earlier and punctuates the statement with a wink.

Louis smiles at him, but he doesn’t look convinced. He looks like he’s about to leave.

Harry grabs his hand and links their fingers. “I like you.”

Louis squeezes, pressing their palms flush against one another. “I like you, too.”  

“Okay, then,” Harry says, hoping that’ll settle it.

Louis lifts their hands to his lips and kisses the tops of their linked fingers. “Okay, then,” he agrees.

Harry’s heart flutters in his chest. It’s like the butterflies in his stomach have moved upward and grown more powerful. He feels like the sensation could lift him up, higher and higher till he’s flying, too. He wants to capture the moment and hang onto it forever. Maybe he needs a tattoo, to match Louis’.


End file.
